You've Been Warned
by Senorita TacoMal
Summary: How far will two men go to ensure the best for their little brothers? No pairings. Mobster!Romano & Veneziano, and an OOC Germany. Rated for language and violence. Moreso "Dark" than "Drama". Image by pikafan124 on DeviantArt.
1. Prologue

This is only in italics 'cause it's the prologue. If it actually bothers you, let me know, and I'll change it to normal text.

I don't know if the other chapters of this story will be so short; they may or may not, depending on how much I like the flow from scene-to-scene. I'm not exactly known for short chapters...

What I _do_ own: I will hopefully soon own a letter of acceptance to study abroad in Japan for a full year :)

Enjoy! If all the chapters are this short, it'll have to be in moderation!

* * *

_They stood at an oasis in a war-torn sea. An oasis of pain, both physical and emotional, but this was, at least, the place where it was supposed to get better. Comrades comforted each other in the wake of the loss of their friends, and nurses ran busily about, bandaging lost limbs, cutting off forsaken ones, and tending to even the most minor of wounds._

_Things were supposed to get better here, but morale was abysmal. The Italians, while not their best ally, had been just that: Their allies. Allies were supposed to have your back until the end._

_That being the case, there were two for whom this place was especially terrible._

_Hidden away, far from the bustle of the camp, Germany had just said something to a certain incognito Italian. Something he'd regret for years to come._

_His regret began the second the sentence came out of his mouth. He hadn't meant for it to sound so harsh. All the man had come to ask of him was forgiveness, to know if they could still be friends when the was was over._

_ Without the circumstances, it could have easily been a joke. But this was not the time for humor._

"_Just... leave me alone for a while, okay? If you're not going to fight alongside me... Well, I do guess I deserve some sort of a break from you-"_

_Once his mouth closed again, he realized Italy had taken it in the worst way possible._

_Italy's response should have been something along the lines of begging Germany not to stop being his friend, and he opened his mouth with that sort of intent, but instead of pleading, a loathsome heap of emotion came up his throat and spoke its mind._

"_Well, if that's how you feel... maybe it _is_ best for me to see if I can find _true_ friends in the Allies..." The delivery was flat, emotionless. The raw truth left no room for sugarcoating._

_But when the truth is built off of a misunderstanding..._

_As Italy turned and began walking away, his reply set something alight inside of the German. He'd misspoken, but Italy... Was he really ready to throw away their friendship at the drop- no, fumble of a hat? He wasn't even going to ask Germany if he really meant what he said? When did Italy become so fickle?_

"_Are you serious...?"_

_He stopped, and, keeping his feet in place, swiveled back around just enough for him to be able to make eye contact with Germany. His eyes were steady, and his gaze slightly darker._

"_What, did you expect me to cry and beg you to take me back?" he challenged. He didn't need to ask. Of _course_ Germany expected that. The jerk thought he knew everything about him._

_Germany wanted to stop himself, but he couldn't. Italy was saying thing in a way that invited responses, and that manner of speaking teased the growing flames of anger inside. Any twinges of regret that arose from his retorts were quickly burned away._

"_Well," Germany upper lip curled into a scowl, "It's all you're good for most of the time."_

_Italy's jaw clenched. This was playing out as if scripted by all of those nightmares, all of those demons whispering "truths" in the shadows of his mind. Just thinking about how Germany might really think about him was always enough to bring him to tears, but now that it was actually happening, the whole thing seemed surprisingly simple: If Germany thought so badly of him, he wasn't a real friend. And if he wasn't a real friend, Italy didn't need him._

_He turned back around, and continued on._

"_Where do you think you're going?"_

"_I'm going to the English barracks."_

"_You think you can just march out of here like that!?"_

"_I have my own legs and my own brain, don't I? What's stopping me?"_

_Italy heard footsteps behind him, but didn't think to react until a hand roughly grabbed his right wrist_

"_Like hell I'd just let you go like that!"_

_Italy smirked, and thought to himself, 'You didn't seem to have a difficult time a few second ago.' But he knew that that wasn't what Germany meant. He knew it instantly. And also instant, was his response._

_He swiveled. He caught the German off-guard. He caught _himself _off guard. He swung his arm, realizing moments later that he was swinging his balled fist with it, but doing nothing to stop it. It connected hard with Germany, square on his right eye. The surprise and rapid influx of pain was enough to shock Germany into releasing his hold on Italy's wrist._

"_If you ever touch me, or talk to me again, you're going to regret it much more than you'll regret that black eye." And he kept marching, not looking back again as he disappeared into the tree line._


	2. Welcome to the Family

Okay, looks like at the very least, the first few chapters WILL be this short. Sorry!

* * *

Romano treaded across the tile floor to the kitchen table, carrying the usual lunch of whatever sort of pasta-like food he had around, at the usual lunch hour, arriving at the usual sight: His younger brother, sans food, elbows on the table and fingers interlaced, forehead resting on the backs of his hands.

It was boring. No, it had passed "boring" after the first 17 seconds of Italy's moping. It had sailed past boring two _years_ ago. Since then, it'd hit the landmarks of depressing, annoying, obnoxious, teeth-grating, _mind_-grating, and on to a plane where there were no words, only heavy sighs of frustration and very, very pissed-off glares.

They'd been home from the war for about a week, and were quickly making up for all of the missed siestas and pasta. Romano didn't think it was a good idea for Italy to be home alone in his state, so they stayed at the older's house in Sicily. One of the things Romano did while ignoring his brother was get in touch with his old Mafia buddies. They'd been perfectly happy to hear from their most powerful ally, and that fact gave Romano an idea. It would be a risky one, but Romano would try anything twice if it meant the slightest chance of Italy off of his depression-binge.

"Fratellino. Get off your lethargic ass and put on some nice clothes."

"Why?" His voice had been several pitches below key ever since the fight, and Romano, who at first was disturbed by it, now recognized it as if it were his normal voice.

"We're going out to meet some friends today." At the very least, Italy was compliant. Pretty much everything Romano told him to do, he did with little question. It was a lot easier to take care of him that way. After Romano finished his lunch and Italy put on a dress shirt, dark gray jeans, and grabbed a black blazer to bring just in case, the two left in Romano's Maserati.

Italy looked ambivalently out at the speed-blended Sicilian streets, not focusing on anything, but mind blank. It'd been like that for as long as he could think back: Emptiness. His focus was empty, his thoughts did not exist, and his heart was void of emotion. It hadn't seen any in years.

"Veneziano!" an annoyed voice cut through the air next to him. Italy jumped away from and looked at the source, his brother.

"We're here. You deaf as well as dumb?"

"Sorry." No more words were exchanged between the two as the Maserati was left in the clay and gravel area designated for parking, and they approached an old factory, the masonry of which had seen better days.

Italy couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, mostly, because he was_ sure_ they werebeing watched. Approaching a Mafia hideout without having one's every move tracked was about as likely as waltzing into a prison without being questioned.

The side door on which they were coming up opened before they were halfway from the car.

"Lovino!" A cheery voice came from a rather large character whose appearance would not include the word "cheery".

"Azzo!" The two exchanged a quick, friendly hug.

"How'd the war treat you, fratello?"

"For a war, I guess I can't complain. I pretty much just sat back and let Germany do the work."

"I heard about those Germans."

"Damn potato bastards… Don't even mention them in front of my fratellino."

"'Eyyy, so this is little Feliciano, ah? I thought he looked a lot like you! Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." Italy forced a smile, and accepted a rough arm around the shoulder from the larger, rugged man.

"Man, your brother had me thinking you were as free-spirited and incompetent as he is! Lovi, quit bullshitting me."

"Ah!? Man, whatever. Don't let him fool you. Normally he'd be running around, hugging some of his damn cats, screaming 'PASTA!' all over the yard."

"Ah, I gotcha." Azzo placed a heavy hand on Italy's shoulder. "War did a number on you, huh, Feli?"

"Actually, that's why I brought him here. I was hoping we could get his mind off the war. He had a falling out with Germany. They were pretty close, and he hasn't been the same since. He's been moping for two years now; think you have something even he could handle?"

"Mmm, well," Azzo paused for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his jaw line thoughtfully. "I do have a couple of easy jobs that I've been reluctant to send the newbies into, but since you two are more resilient… As long as you keep an eye on him, I think I can get you a steady stream of jobs."

"Grazie, fratello. Have anything for us now?"

"I do. Something real easy to start you off. The Bachini family's pay day is today. We've tried to be nice, but we can't afford to let them keep putting it off. Looks bad."

"Awww, Azzo, you're demoting me to a loan shark? Come on, man!"

"Hey. You haven't seen any action for a good long time. I need to make sure you're still sharp, and see what your fratellino is made of. You get us the cash, quick and easy. I'll get you a better job."

"Sounds fair. Come on, Veni, let's get this bastard his cashola."


	3. Progress

The story on the other side of Switzerland wasn't much different.

The awkward silences didn't bother Prussia much. The constant sighing, staring off into space, occasional hidden tears, none of that bothered him.

Or so he liked to think.

If he allowed himself to acknowledge that seeing his brother like this was tearing him apart inside with the same level of ruthlessness for every last one of those 800-something days, he would lose it. Germany was hardly taking care of himself anymore. Prussia couldn't afford to break down, too.

He didn't like to pay attention to those depressing things. Day after day, he'd gotten by via sticking to a daily routine. The routine did not include a time scheduled for "freak out about your and your sibling's encroaching loss of sanity", so he did not do so. Not so difficult, right?

Hah.

It was getting to be too much. Prussia knew it, and Germany could probably tell, too. If he had to make one more excuse to Spain as to why he couldn't hang out, if he had to cook one more meal, if he had to let one more hot girl walk by his window without doing something-

Doing something. Those two words stuck after the rest of the thought was gone. Even Germany looked up from the sofa and into Prussia's widening eyes.

"Bruder? What's wrong?"

"Nothing… I just realized something I have to do."

_Action. _That was exactly what was under his skin and burrowing.

Saying he hadn't _wanted _to help would have been the lie of the century. He was an older brother, a _caring _one. But somehow, not until now did he realize he'd been caring in the wrong direction. He'd spent this time trying to help Germany directly, with immediate symptoms of his sadness and lethargy. No matter how much he tried to duct tape his brother (actually, the biggest smile he'd gotten out of Germany since this started was one day when he came in without a word and just started duct taping the crap out of him. There'd been a half-second glimmer of laughing white teeth from the younger) he'd never done a thing to try to fix the original problem.

'_If I called Romano and asked him for help… no, Romano hates Germany. He's probably trying to make Italy forget about him… But something tells me if that is the case, it's not working. Even if Romano were heartless enough to try, he can't keep lying to himself forever… Well, I've lied to myself for two years, but that's not the point. The point is, I have to try."_

* * *

_'I should have known it wouldn't be that simple.'_

Ever since his "take action" plan was hatched a few days prior, Prussia had called every contact number he knew for Veneziano. He'd called when he knew he would be there. He'd called during the most and least likely of times. He'd called at five in the morning, but nothing, at any of his homes.

He sighed as he pressed on the receiver's switch, then released it, dialing one last time the number for Italy's home in Venice.

_'What to do now? Going on a man hunt for him would be both insane and impo-'_

"Pronto."

"Ah- er, yes, pronto!" Prussia sputtered, as an elderly-sounding female voice came on the line.

"Chi parla?"

"This is It- I mean, Feliciano's friend, Gilbert. I was wondering if he is around."

"Oh no, I'm afraid he is not. He has been with his brother in Sicily for a few weeks now."

"Grazie. Would you happen to know his brother's phone number?"

"Si, he wrote it down for me in a little green booklet… now where did he put it? Oh dear, now what did I do with that booklet? I tell you what, Gilbert, is it?"

"Si."

"I look for the number and I call you back to tell you soon, va bene?"

"That sounds fine, thank you."

"Good. Well then, ciao!"

"Hold on a-"

The line went dead before he could remind the lady that she needed his phone number to call him back. He shook his head, smiling, and redialed the number.

But no one answered.

Seven more attempts did not do the trick. The little old lady never picked up the phone again.

"Scheiße!" he growled, throwing the phone roughly back onto its hook. So close, and the forgetful old bat had taken it from him.

The scent of progress, fresh in the air, was making the whole situation claw at him even worse than before. Pacing back and forth, sufficiently agitated, he had a choice to make and lacked the right frame of mind to do so responsibly.

* * *

Before he could think again, a bag with a few day's worth of clothes and other necessities was slung over his shoulder, and he was calling a good friend while pulling on his shoes.

"Yeah, now, if you could… Sorry it's such short notice, but I need to get there as quickly as I can… I'm worried, too… Would you really do that for me?… Bernd, I couldn't ask for a better friend right now. Yeah. See you in five."

"Bruder?"

Prussia froze for the first time since his conversation with the housekeeper ended abruptly.

The pathetically meek voice belonged to Germany, who was poking his head around the archway leading to the kitchen. He'd been much quieter and less gruff, sort of like he was when he was a child. This fact was one of the few that Prussia did not mind. If he even thought about enjoying having this semblance of his cute baby brother, though, he would become angry with himself. Time had helped him learn to ignore the urges to feel more than negative about Germany's disposition.

"Are you going somewhere?"

This voice was weaker than most, though. Other than for work, for the past several weeks since they returned from the war, Prussia had not left Germany's side. But if there were two things Prussia knew at the moment, they were these two. One: This was not optional, or negotiable in any way. Two, his brother looked and sounded like a puppy whose owners were going on vacation.

Gently, Prussia laid down his bag, and took the few steps over to his sad-looking brother. He stopped in front of him, trying to figure out what to say to comfort him. But there weren't words to make, "I've got to go to Italy for a while to find your best friend and get him back by your side, where he belongs. I don't know how long it will take, and I don't know if I'll have good news when I return. But be strong, baby brother. Be strong for yourself, and me. Please," sound any better.

So he didn't use any. With tender and understanding hands that only a sibling could possess, Prussia pulled Germany's head to his chest and hugged and nuzzled him tightly.

"I'm sorry, West… your big bro's going to be gone for a few days. I need you to stay here and take care of yourself as best you can, okay?"

"Can't I come with you…?"

"I wish you could. But I'll only be gone for a little while. I'll be back before you know it." He let Germany go, taking both of his hands in his own. Germany, however, refused to meet his gaze, and tears seemed even more likely than they were moments before.

_'He's like a five-year-old…' _"West. Look at me... Germany…" Prussia sighed in an annoyed yet patient way. "Ludwig."

He had always used that name as a way to indicate to his brother that he was serious. And he most certainly was.

"I swear to you, I'll come back. I will be thinking of you the entire way there, the entire time I'm there, and on the entire way home. There is no way I could leave you here without thinking of you the whole time. We are _brothers_. We've been together for almost two hundred years. There's no way I couldn't come back, because I love you more than anything, Ludwig. I'd do anything for you. And that's why we have to be apart for a little while. Okay? Just remember that if you miss me. I love you."

Germany nodded in return, the corners of his mouth just barely upturned in a sad but accepting smile. Prussia smiled back, standing on the balls of his feet in order to kiss Germany on the forehead. At that moment, the headlights of a car filled the room with flighty shadows and brightness from the outside.

"Bernd is here," Prussia said as he once again grabbed his bag, and pulled an overcoat from the rack next to the door. "He'll come in and check on you every so often, and let him know if you need anything. I left his number by the phone."

"Okay... Prussia?"

He turned as he flung the coat over his shoulder, halfway through the door. "Yeah?"

He was met with a warm smile, the first he'd seen from him in years, and the kind he was terrified he would never see again.

"I love you, too, Bruder."


	4. Venice

***Apparently, I've had this chapter written for a while. Oopsie.***

* * *

Prussia slept well during the entire flight to Venice, and once he managed to get to sleep in the hotel, did so soundly as well. It was a well-deserved rest, and now that he was actually doing something about the problem, he could put his worries about his brother aside just long enough to get a few hours of peaceful sleep.

He'd received weird looks for his bright purple, tailor-made suit in his home country, but his style, while still unique, stood out far less on Italian territory. His Teutonic ancestry was one thing his suit couldn't hide, and the next day as he sat back in a gondola, he received a good number of gazes of temperaments ranging from fearsome to lethal from the Italian citizens. His purpose in the city had nothing to do with sentiments of war (ignoring of course, the fact that the war was what had caused the rift between friends in the first place,) so he found it easy to ignore the people around him and focus on the address written in Germany's leather-bound notebook, secured in his inner coat pocket.

"This is the address, signore," the rather gruff, flatly-voiced gondolier informed him as they stopped in front one building in a row of beautifully crafted flats. Prussia thanked the man and asked him to wait, before stepping out of the boat and entering the open-air complex.

He didn't need to look at the notebook again; the address had burned itself into his consciousness from the moment he decided to go there, and settled into the crevices while he was biting his covers in the hotel, trying to keep from hopping up and raid Veneziano's house at one in the morning.

Four flights of stairs later, he was where he needed to be. Even though he was eager to continue on his mission, he couldn't help but notice the beautiful view from the fifth floor outlook on the opposite side of the building. No wonder Veneziano had a place here. The sun reflected beautifully over the gently rippling canal wa-

No time! Prussia refocused, and knocked on the door, only to receive no reply. "What else is new?" he muttered, making an attempt at the doorknob. Of course, it was firmly locked. He should have brought lockpicking equipment with him, but the idea eluded him before his arrival.

"And who knows when that lady will be back to check on the place…?" He ran a hand pensively through silver locks. He didn't have any better ideas, so he allowed his instincts to take over. Maybe his body could think of something.

* * *

Last time he trusts his instincts. LAST.

The leap to the balcony was a feasible five feet to the right, but the angle made it difficult (although the balcony stuck out, the outlook at which he was standing was constructed flush against the masonry,) and the consequences for failure were somewhat severe. Still, he'd seen that the window was cracked open, and it was the only sure way into the unit.

Before he could further convince himself that this was a very bad idea, he was perched on the railing, ready to leap. The old, rusty connections under the painted metal protested, but held tight. "Okay, Preußen. You are far too awesome to not be able to do something cool like this. You will be fine, because you are awesome, God knows it, and he will look out for you."

* * *

Meanwhile, in Heaven, the bearded man turned around, ears perked.

"Did I hear summin'?"

* * *

"Right. God is totally looking out for you. So on the count of three. Eins, zwei… DREI!"

Doing his best to avoid but stay as close as possible to the edge of the building, Prussia jumped. His right fingers just barely found a hold on the smooth stone of the balcony, and he used this to swing up his left hand in order to get a better grip. He'd done it! His right fingers were screaming bloody murder, but he had a firm hold. Lifting himself up and over, he was more than elated to see the slightly opened window in front of him.

"Thank you, God!" Prussia prayed quickly. He lifted the stubborn window with his left hand, and slid into the unit.

He found himself in the kitchen, one that he recognized as furnished with all of the top-of -the-line, 1940s innovations in cooking. However, although the kitchen was tidy and dust-free, it still gave off a neglected air. It hadn't been used in years.

Prussia's thoughts were quickly pushed aside as the green book on the kitchen bar caught his attention.

"Far from misplaced…" he muttered through gritted teeth. The mission once again interrupted his other thoughts, and he nearly tore the book's binding apart as he thumbed through it for Romano's address.

"Sicily! Sehr gut! And his number is here, too!" Prussia grinned. With no hesitation, he hunted down Veneziano's phone, and dialed the precious digits.

After a couple of rings…

"Pronto?"

"Romano!"

" Ch-"

"It's me, Prussia!"

"…"

"Hello?"

"What the hell do _you_ want? It better not be what I think."

"Romano, please, just-"

"No."

"Hear me out, damnit!"

"…"

"Can I take that as my cue to speak?"

"Hurry it up."

"Veneziano is suffering just as much as West is, isn't he?"

"I don't know what y-"

"Romano, come on. You can't tell me that Veneziano isn't miserable. W-"

"Don't try with your pathetic attempts to suck up to me by calling him Veneziano."

"Sorry." An awkward pause. They were both quite obviously on the same page, so Prussia cut the crap. Romano was a big kid; he could handle the straight and obvious truth. "You know getting them back together is what they both need."

"My brother doesn't _need _anything to do with you bastards. Prussia, you're an alright guy, for a kraut. I had a higher opinion of you than to take you for someone who'd _defend_ a guy who may have killed you."

Prussia faltered for a second as the memory of his loss of statehood hit him. Being so busy taking care of Germany, he hadn't had time to think about it, and didn't want to start now. "…West had no part in that," Prussia said in a darker tone. "And still, that doesn't change the fact that he's my little brother. And I'm going to look out for him."

Romano snorted. "You call him West like you're still on equal terms."

"Don't push this off-topic. Bottom line, West and Italy need to apologize and rekindle their friendship. We all just lost a war. They need to be there for each other."

"Like I said, Veneziano doesn't need-"

"He does, Romano. You _know _it. You can't be his older brother and not know it. West and Veni _need _each other. And if you're not going to help me get them back on friendl-"

"I'm warning you now. Stay away from my fratellino," he growled hauntingly.

"Whether or not he wants to be around me or West isn't _your _decision. It's _his._ There's a difference between trying to look out for him and trying to force what you want on him."

"You're only getting one warning, Gilbert." The line clicked.

"Hallo? Romano?..."

Prussia sighed and laid the phone back on its hook, taking a seat in a nearby kitchen chair and running both hands through his hair. Sure, he didn't expect convincing Romano to be as simple as giving a convincing monologue, but Romano's reaction had been more than negative. The second Prussia gave a hint he was thinking about taking action on his own, Romano had immediately become viciously opposed. "Warning", he had learned during the war, had two meanings to Romano. The first was the standard definition. The other had more of an ignore-it-and-don't-wake-up nuance.

This knowledge, however, was not one of the cars on the train of thought that was barreling down the "good idea" track of his brain, straight into the "plan of action" station. This train had only two message on it: Go to Sicily, and talk to Italy directly.

_'If I hurry, I may still be able to catch a plane,' _he thought to himself as he fled the apartment and nearly flew down the stairs. He took the gondolier by surprise as he jumped back into the boat.

"Do you know if there is a flight leaving for Sicily soon?" Prussia more demanded than asked.

"Mi dispiace, signore. The flight service has not been resumed since the war." This was the longest sentence the man had made so far.

"There are planes available for charter at the airport, though."

"Si, signore."

Prussia smirked in satisfaction. It might cost a bit extra, but he could get there. "Then, I need to go back to the hotel, as quickly as you can."

"Si, signore."

As the gondolier went to work, Prussia sat back, mind racing under the influence of adrenaline. _'Preußen, quit that. There is no reason to get so worked up, when you cannot do anything.' _He breathed deeply, exhaling his buildup of stress, and finally allowed himself to take in the Venetian scenery.

_'Someday, West, I will come here with you. Someday soon. I promise."_


	5. That's What Friends Are For

"Who was that, Romano?"

Veneziano, paused in mid-step, caught a half-second look at the dark, glazed-over look on his brother's face. But, it was gone by the time he blinked, replaced with a confused look as Romano came to attention.

"Ah? No one. Just an old friend. Did you finish your 'cleaning' yet?"

"Almost done. Are you okay? You looked annoyed." He continued on his path, jumping up onto a kitchen counter to reach the tops of the cabinets above.

Normally, Romano would have been annoyed at his brother jumping up everywhere, with his natural clumsy nature. This development, however, was more than welcome. The Mafia had changed Italy, in only a few short weeks. He was happy to do go grocery shopping, was bringing more girls than ever back to his room (slightly to Romano's jealousy,) and had discovered that day that Romano's housekeeper was doing a terrible job of keeping the tops of high places clean. Despite Romano's protests, he'd been contently swinging from place to place for almost an hour.

"I'm fine. He has a bad family problem going on. How long are you going to spend on one damn cabinet top, fratellino?! We've gotta go soon!"

"Has it been an hour already? I'm sorry. I can finish later." He left the rag in its place, and hopped down from the counter."

"Change your clothes," Romano requested.

"Huh? What's wrong with what I normally wear?" Veneziano's hands raised up to his sides to emphasize his question.

"You're covered in dust, and you smell like a maid cart took a crap on you. This is a serious mission, not a cleaning competition," Romano deadpanned.

Veneziano looked down, seeing the telltale light brown stains on his sleeves and various other places on his black shirt and pants. He got the point. "Fine," he groaned, "I'll meet you in the car in three. You're worse than-" He aborted his sentence abruptly, immediately turning to his room to work on the task at hand. His brother didn't question the abrupt end to the sentence. He knew what he was about to say. And he was pleased that he chose not to. That name had been taboo for as long as Romano had known that asshole, and Veneziano was finally getting the hang of it.

Romano took his leave outside, allowing his thoughts to switch back to his recent phone conversation. _'I'll beat him into extinction if he so much as shows up in Sicily. He's smart enough to know that… and more than twice as dumb enough to ignore me. There will_ _be a confrontation here, soon. And I will not be caught off-guard.'_

He spun around just in time to catch the figure approaching him from behind.

"Veni." A sharp finger pointed to the left side of the car. "Quit goofing around and get your ass in the seat before I shoot you instead of these bastards."

Veneziano shrugged off this failed attempt at startling his brother, and got in the car without protest.

_'Nope,' _Romano thought as he swung into the driver's seat and cranked up the car._ "I won't be caught off-guard.'_

* * *

The two brothers, along with Azzo, walked from the building unceremoniously. Despite all of the gunfire that had been exchanged, there was nothing to fear from the houses around. Their family ran the entire block. This mission had just been to remind everyone of that. They could ensure that the whispers of rebellion would be silenced now that the ring leader wouldn't be speaking anymore.

"I gotta tell you, fratellino, I'm proud of you." Romano momentarily shifted his revolver to his left hand, to slap his brother on the shoulder.

Veneziano smiled. "Careful, fratello, this arm's busy, and you're not helping."

On the other end of the arm, fingers were deeply tangled in a head of medium-long, black hair. The owner of the hair was punching and struggling, but her petite frame had nowhere near enough power to free itself. The fourteen-year-old didn't make a peep as she fought to get away from her captors. He and the pistol in his right hand had made her well aware that a scream for help meant she would be left dead on the ground. He let her have her go at freedom, though. The more she fought, the easier she'd be to subdue later on.

"I am, though! We didn't take a bit of damage, and it was all you. Man, you're a freak of nature with that Tommy gun. Took out what, seven of them and hardly used any ammo? Can't believe I ever thought the Mafia wasn't for you. It must be in our blood! Why couldn't you be more like that during the war?"

Veneziano shrugged graciously.

Azzo chuckled. "From what I've heard, you weren't that great at war either, Lovino."

"Tch, That's beside the point." The group reached the cars they'd parked moderately far away. "Hey, Feli, throw this bitch in the back, then head home. I've gotta talk to Azzo for a bit; we'll take her back."

"No problema; see you back at home." He took to getting the protesting girl into his car, who obliged as soon as he pulled back the hammer to remind her of what was in his other hand.

"What's up, Lovino?" Azzo asked, sliding into the driver's seat of his car as Veneziano drove off. His eyes widened slightly as Romano's darkened.

Romano joined him inside. "I need a few guys for a task."

"A few guys? A task like what? You know we're spread a little thin right now."

"I know, I know. But this is _very_ important. They don't have to be experienced. Just give me some grunts with a lust for blood. There are some guys at the hideout now, yeah?"

"I have a couple who you could take home with you. Not much brain, but a lot of brawn. I can find you more tomorrow."

"Fuck, I'll take whatever I can get tonight- HEY."

The girl the back froze in a flinch as a ring of lukewarm metal was pressed against her head.

"Calmarsi, o ti _prende _troppo."

She remained silent and still for the remainder of her time in the car.

Romano sighed and slouched back in his seat, massaging his temple exhaustedly. "Bitch is giving me a headache. Let's get her there ASAP." Azzo nodded in agreement, starting the car with a roar and pulling away from the curb.

"So, are you going to keep me in the dark about why you need these guys?" He feigned a hurt tone in his question.

"It's the potato bastard's brother. He's trying to get the two back together, and I don't plan to let that happen. Feli hasn't acted this normal since we were kids. Even if we weren't the strongest, he was actually capable of doing things by himself back then. He became even weaker as we got older, and once he latched onto Herr Potato Shit, I knew hope for him was gone entirely. We've been granted a second chance. I'll kill Gilbert before I let him take it away."

Azzo nodded. "So, you think he knows how to find you?"

"He's halfway there already. He called me; he's on my tail."

"Well, least I can do for you is lend you some boys and stay out of it."

"Thanks, fratello. I won't need them long. I'm expecting a visit in the next couple of days."

Romano grinned gratefully and turned his attention to his own buzzing thoughts. _'Friends who've got your back no matter what. That,'_ he realized as he settled into the ride ahead, _'is what I missed most.'_


End file.
